In Storybooks
by Phoenix Moon 13
Summary: Post Storyteller, Anya comes to some conclusions about her love life and the people she wants in it. Person, to be specific. Who has also come to some conclusions.


**_In Storybooks_**

_I think I needed that_, Anya thought, smoothing her hair once more, though the wild monkey sex was hours ago.

The sex put a skip in her step and the release put the wind in her hair.

She strode purposefully along the hall, head up, smiling at all those poor little virginal Potentials who would probably die before they knew the touch of a man. Not that she was insensitive or anything.

Andrew burst out of the bathroom and squealed as Amanda and Rona beat him over the head with their overnight bags for spending so long in there. When he finally broke free of them, he bent over his camera, checking for damage. So preoccupied was he that he walked right into her.

"Oh, sorry, Anya," he said distractedly, returning to examining his camera as he carried on down the hall.

Curious as to what could be more interesting than her, Anya reached out and snatched it out of his hands.

"Hey!" he cried. "That's mine!"

She held it out of his reach and twisted the viewfinder so she could watch the last few minutes of film.

"Let's see what you've been doing in there all this time," she teased. Boy, she was in a good mood.

_"Here's the thing. I killed my best friend. There's a big fight coming and I don't know what's going to happen. I don't even think I'm going to live through it. That's uh, probably the way it should be. I guess I'm…"_

"What the hell is this?" she demanded, waving the camera in his face, her good mood evaporating.

"If you press rewind, your interview is actually a few minutes -"

"I don't mean that, although, for the record, you'd better have my best side. But anyway, what the hell do you mean by you don't think you'll live through this and that's probably the way it should be?"

"I was just being honest," he answered, lowering his gaze and shifting his feet. "Anyway, that _is_ how it's supposed to be. My death fulfils my redemption."

"Where do you get that idea from? A story? It doesn't work like that!" she emphasised her point by waving the camera more vigorously.

"It's just the way it is," he answered sadly, taking the camera from her and leaving her gaping at him on the landing.

Dammit.

She was just free of one guy when in walked another that she suddenly decided needed… Well, she'd get back to you when she figured that part out.

* * *

Since their meeting outside the bathroom, things had changed slightly between Anya and Andrew. Their previous relationship had been one that involved him tied to a chair with her slapping him. Or throwing water over him, though Anya swore that had been Dawn. Then they actually started talking. Then the camera thing happened.

Since then Anya had been throwing him odd looks for the past few days and Andrew had come to a conclusion.

"She likes me," he declared to Spike. "She wants to lurrve me."

"Huh?" Spike asked, looking up at him from where he was slumped over the counter with a cigarette halfway to his lips.

"Anya," Andrew repeated patiently. "Who has told you more than once about smoking in the house."

"Bite me," Spike replied. "On second thoughts, I'll bite you."

"No you wouldn't," Andrew said, attempting the smirk he had been practising. "You have a soul, you're like a - a tamed alpha male who -"

"Oh, not that tripe again," Spike moaned. "When are you going to figure out that life is not a story? This life - the stuff that's happening right now - this life is about as far from storybook land as you're going to get."

"That's like what she said," Andrew said, a wistful smile on his face.

"Who?"

"_Anya._ Haven't you been listening?"

"Were you talking?" Spike asked, then at Andrew's nod, added. "Then no. So what's all this about Anyanka?"

Andrew sighed and sat down. It was so hard being a misunderstood hero. People tied you up and held you over Seals and didn't appreciate the fine art of the movie making industry. Ah, life was a trial sometimes. _But_ _that_, Andrew figured,_ is what redemption is all about._

"A few days ago she yelled at me."

"Giles yells at you and I don't think he wants to love you."

"Ok, I just went to a mental place and y'know -"

"I will kill you if you finish that sentence. Now, please, if you will insist on talking, at least discuss something that doesn't make me want to claw my eyeballs out."

"I was _just_ saying that I think Anya likes me. Likes me, likes me."

Spike raised his eyebrows at Andrew.

"Now, remind me, are you delusional?"

Andrew snapped out of his daydream, one that he had embellished over the last few days until it was almost as perfect and awe inspiring at his "We Are As Gods," one.

"She was very upset when I said I might die."

"And funnily enough, I'm not inclined to agree," Spike answered, drawing on his cigarette. "So, Anya says you shouldn't be going around saying you're gonna die and you think that means she - and I quote - 'likes me, likes me'? When all I'm getting from that is she was feeling optimistic about our impending doom."

"See, she cares."

"You're insane," Spike stated. "Tell me, what could she possibly see in you?"

"Well, my name comes from the Greek for 'strong man'!" Andrew told him.

"Which would explain why you're such a strapping lad," Spike answered wryly eyeing Andrew's slight frame pointedly.

"And Andrews have magnetic personalities!" Andrew continued.

"You repel people, you mean."

Andrew stared down at the counter top, swirling his fingers over the surface dejectedly.

"Well, I didn't see her coming back for more after your little encounter at the Magic Box," he huffed. He glanced up at Spike from his perusal of the tabletop and hastened to amend his statement. "I mean, she probably did, only you rejected her. Which was probably the best thing for both of you. Kudos."

Spike continued to stare at Andrew in what Andrew obviously saw as a threatening way because he stood up and backed away from the counter.

"I'm just gonna go now," he said nervously. "Not because you're scaring me, 'cause you don't. But because as a budding director, I have major pieces of film to, er, film."

With that, he turned and exited. Spike allowed his steady frown to crack into a smile.

"Who knew, the kid does actually have some stones," he tilted to his head to one side. "Well, _stone_ at least."

* * *

Anya was annoyed. It was something she did well and no one seemed to notice. Not even Xander. Not that she cared anymore, but it would have been nice.

She had decided to confront Andrew. She had been mulling his words over in her head and after listening to yet another of Buffy's - strangely un-motivational - motivation speeches, she had decided to take the bull by the horns. Not that Andrew was a bull, more like a cute little calf. But anyway, the point was, people shouldn't just accept that they might die, they sure as hell shouldn't figure it's best for all.

Those words were the reason for Anya's foul mood. It was all very well for her to call the Potentials "cannon fodder," that was the way she was, it was expected of her. But she had been part of the whole Scooby thing for a while now and she actually thought they had a 50-50 chance of winning. Well, ok, if she was perfectly honest, she thought it was more like 60-40 in the First's favour. But she didn't like to get bogged down in details, the point was, she did have _some_ belief.

And for some reason, it hurt that Andrew didn't. What's more, she didn't like how he just accepted it. How he figured "That's uh, probably the way it should be."

It irked her. So she was going to do something about it. She checked the living room, dining room and kitchen and couldn't find him.

It never used to be so hard to find someone in this house, she thought, now wherever you look there's Potentials. It's like they're taking over. It's_ -_

"Hey, Anya."

She turned sharply and grinned. It was Xander.

Her heart didn't know which way to go. Up because it wasn't Andrew, or down for the very same reason. Y'know, she never used to be this screwed up.

"Oh, hi, Xander," she said. "You seen Andrew?"

"Uh, I usually try to avoid him. So, no."

She felt a surge of anger, placed her hands on her hips, and frowned at him. He raised his eyebrows and backed away with his hands up in a gesture of defence.

"Y'know, Xander," she said. "Andrew thinks he's gonna die and he thinks that's how it should be. I think it's high time we started treating him like an equal."

"Ok, first question, why? And second question, huh? Anya, where has this come from?"

"We've bonded."

"Oh, was that during or after the slapping him? And it suddenly strikes me that you could mean bonded in the literal sense. Tell me you're not sleeping with him."

"I'm not," she answered testily. "But even if I was, we had one-last-time-sex, it's over between us."

"Yeah, I got that. But seriously, Anya, Andrew's a murderer -"

"He's sorry. He's trying to make up for it - atone - whatever you people call it. So, have you seen him or not?"

Xander sighed. He knew when that there was no use trying to point out Andrew's failings. The fact was, if Anya liked someone, that was usually it. And for whatever reason, Andrew seemed to have grown on her. He couldn't help feeling hurt though, when he noted that familiar look in her eyes. One that used to be for him. One that - wait a minute.

"Are you… Do you… Have feelings for him?" he asked suddenly.

She started, her hands falling to her sides and her mouth gaped. Did she? If she didn't, why did the idea that he thought no one would care if he died upset her? Why would the way he looked on that video make her feel like her heart was breaking? Why would anything he said or did matter to her?

And it was more than that. She liked him, really. In the way where she liked it when she made him smile, or laugh. Liked the way his hair looked when he ran his fingers through it. Liked the way he labelled the food in the fridge and moaned when someone took it. She liked the way he didn't mind if _she_ took something he labelled.

She liked him. More than liked him. _Oh God, what am I thinking?_

"I… I guess I do."

Xander stared at her. It was really over now. She moved on. Got feelings for someone else. And yeah, it hurt, but not the way it might have done a few months back. Wow. They really were finished.

"Then I suppose… He must be a decent guy," Xander conceded, resting a hand on her shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "He's upstairs, hiding behind the pot plant from Amanda 'cause he used up her hairspray."

"Thank you," Anya whispered, covering his hand with hers. "Really."

"Yeah."

"I'll always love you, y'know? There'll always be a piece of me that's yours."

"Same here," for some reason he felt choked.

This felt more like goodbye than walking away in the rain, than seeing a grainy image of her and Spike, than watching her dress and walk up the basement stairs. This truly felt like the end. And a part of him was grateful for it.

She walked past him slowly and climbed the stairs.

"Goodbye, Anya," he whispered.

* * *

Andrew was indeed curled behind the pot plant. He wasn't actually hiding from Amanda; she had found him an hour ago and made him give her the money for another can of hairspray. He had retreated behind the pot plant to contemplate things.

Spike had a point. What would Anya see in him? She seemed to prefer guys like Xander. He wasn't brunette, he didn't have brown eyes, he couldn't say really nice, cool stuff and he was no good with the sarcasm and jokes. She obviously liked Spike and Andrew really wasn't that much of a badass. Though, Andrew thought privately, he and Spike bore a slight resemblance.

Well, ok, maybe not. But he did say _slight._

So Andrew had decided that Anya liking him was wishful thinking. No, Anya liking him like _that_ was wishful thinking; he still had hopes that Anya liked him as a friend. Right now, he was trying very, very hard not to feel too hurt. After all, it was his fault for hoping she might like him. It was his fault for deciding that she was the girl for him.

But that was the problem, that _wasn't_ his fault. He couldn't help that she was perfect, he couldn't help that he wanted her. If there was some dumb higher power, it was their fault for showing him something he could never have.

It was their fault for letting him do the unthinkable: fall in love with Anya.

He had no time to be shocked by his internal admission because the pot plant was yanked to one side and he was hauled to his feet. He knew who it was.

"We have to talk," Anya stated and pulled him along the hall, pushing him into Dawn's room.

She closed the door and jammed a chair under the handle to afford them some privacy.

"Er, Anya," he ventured. "I don't think we should be in here. I mean, this is Dawn's room and I like Dawn, but she's kinda scary."

"Oh, who cares?" Anya waved this to one side and pushed him onto the bed. She dragged a chair up and sat down opposite him. "You're wrong."

"Huh?"

"What you said. I think it went something like, "I don't think I'm going to make it and maybe that's the way it should be." You're wrong. That's not how it should be."

"Yes, it is," Andrew nodded. "When I die, I prove I'm a good guy."

"But I already know you're a good guy," Anya said in a low voice. "You're here. You didn't kill anyone with the gun when the First told you to."

"Not like anyone noticed," he muttered.

"I did," she stated. "I saw."

"Oh."

There was a silence in which Andrew felt Anya take his hand. His breath hitched and she smiled.

"Y'know," she started. "I was thinking about you and I, Andrew, and I think, ok, you're a nerd, but I think I can work with that. I have before. I think we could… y'know."

"But you like guys like Xander!" Andrew spluttered, pulling his hand away and standing up, backing away.

This wasn't happening._ Wake up; wake up,_ he chanted silently. There was no way he was letting her say anything more. He wanted to wake up _now_. If she did something - anything - and he woke up, he didn't know if he could bear it. He backed up until he hit the desk and looked toward her fearfully as she stood up and faced him.

"Well, maybe brunette's aren't my type anymore," she shrugged.

"That could mean guys aren't your type anymore," he pointed out.

"Mmm… Sometimes Kennedy's tongue piercing _is_ rather alluring," her eyes took on a faraway look for a moment, before focusing back on him. "But that's not the point! I was trying to be romantic."

"Oh. Please, continue," Andrew gulped and leaned back against the desk as she approached.

"That was pretty much it," she told him in a low voice, approaching him slowly. "The 'we' bit was the main thrust of my argument. It was basically the only thrust of my argument."

She pressed against him and he let out a whimper as his arms took on a life of their own and wound around her waist. Suddenly, he pulled back and pushed her away, scrambling to the door.

He struggled with the chair until her hands descended on his.

"Don't you, um, like me?" she asked as he looked up at her.

"It's n-not… It's not that… I mean, I do like you…. I kinda m-more than like you… But this isn't how it goes. You're a heroine; you need a hero… I'm not one, I killed someone."

"So did I," she said. "I killed hundreds, thousands probably. I'm no heroine."

"You're repenting of your ways," he pointed out. "You're trying to make amends -"

"No, I'm not," she shrugged. "I'm trying to make the most of the time I've got. I'm trying to do something with this dumb human life. I can't make up for what I did. I just can't. But I'm on the good side now, that's what matters, that's all that matters. Now."

"Now?" he squeaked, drawing himself up, almost hypnotised by her.

"Yeah," she whispered. "We're the same, you and me, Andrew. We both did bad things, we both changed. If you think I'm a heroine, maybe you're my storybook hero."

He gulped again. His hand was in hers again. This wasn't a dream. He could feel her, smell her perfume, hear her steady breathing. And for a moment, he felt like a hero. Like he wasn't just Andrew, a useless no one, a guy that rarely knew what he was doing around girls.

He didn't know when his hand reached up to cup her cheek and lace his fingers through a strand of her hair.

"Hey, wait," she said suddenly. "You kinda more than like me? What does that mean?"

He felt his face flush crimson and he lowered his gaze. He felt her hand tighten slightly, reassuring him.

"Storybook hero's are supposed to love the heroine," he said.

She was silent for a moment. Had he been too cryptic? Oh, crap, he hadn't been clear enough. Now he'd have to figure out a cool way to make it clearer and that could take -

"And usually the heroine loves him right back."

He lifted his gaze back to her eyes and she was smiling. At him. Like she meant what she just said.

"End of the world as we know it's coming," she continued, her smile growing at his goofy grin. "Where do you wanna be?"

He didn't answer. Storybook heroes don't use words, they use lips. Not in a talky way, in a lip lockage way.

For the first time in Andrew's memory, he was the one that initiated a kiss. It felt good, real and true. Not something made up and dishonest. There was something in that kiss that made him believe, made him truly think something about himself he had never really considered before.

He was someone's hero.

* * *

**_The End._**


End file.
